


Cosmology

by DoubleBit



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Drinking, Drug Use, F/M, Gen, Homophobic Language, M/M, Non-sequential free-formish, References to Abuse, Snakes N' Barrels, Underage Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-22 01:55:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11370126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubleBit/pseuds/DoubleBit
Summary: A story about Pickles, in no particular order.





	Cosmology

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much, ye who read this! <3

This kid’s got hands the size of flank steaks, and Pickles thinks they’re maybe the biggest hands he’s ever _seen._ They look like there’s nothing they couldn’t break. And the funny thing is, the kid’s got black _nail polish_ on, like he doesn’t even know that he already looks scary as fuck. And not scary like a person, but in the way that looking out at the desert, or the stars, or the ocean makes you feel like you’re nothing.  
-

The thing about Chris Cabrera was, she’d wiped the floor with that asshole Timmy Woods at the Lincoln County Fair Loon-Calling Contest for three years running. And Pickles never would’ve thought to use the phrase _punk rock_ to describe the act of competitive bird imitation, but there she was – five feet tall, more like five-eight with those jet-black liberty spikes, wearing an overlarge leather jacket in the sweltering August heat, and belting out a tremolo with such haunting perfection that Pickles felt an honest-to-God _shiver_ run down the back of his neck.

They finally met that fall, in Ms. Fulton’s fifth-period English class, and bonded over a mutual obsession with Glenn Danzig, a fascination which ran deeper than music, and into a kind of primordial sexual ache that they both intuited, but for different – and ultimately similar – reasons, chose to ignore. Unlike Pickles, Chris disdained boys in general, and she didn’t drink or smoke, but she did have a cousin in LA named Luz, who sent Chris her bodyweight in vinyl every year.

“Dude,” she’d said, lying on the floor beside Pickles while he rifled through her record collection and tried not to notice the way her shirt rode up when she folded her arms beneath her head. “Where are you gonna go after graduation?”

“Go?” Pickles blinked at her, his eyes narrow from the joint he’d smoked on the quarter-mile walk from his house to hers. “I dunno. Seth says I can stay with him an’ CJ for a while.”

Chris scowled at him. “Gross. Come on, though – for real? CJ’s like, fucking creepy, and Seth is… I mean, your brother is _such_ a piece of shit, dude.”

“Seth? I always took him for a total fuckin’ gentleman. Like, a stand-up American. He’s a good kid, ya know, who just gets mixed up with some bad people from time to time, like, _all_ the time.” Pickles smirked and looked down to toy with his shoelaces. “Seriously, though – it’s better than fuckin’ stayin’ at home.”

Chris considered that, drumming on the floorboards with chipped, black nails. “You should just come to California with me.”

Pickles’ heart jumped. “What like, just leave?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, dude – like, just _leave._ Like, get on a fucking bus, like, ‘Adios, cabrones!’” She smiled at him. “You could start a band, and I could design all your fliers. Come up with like, some really sweet lettering that nobody can fucking read.”

She let him kiss her that night – closed her eyes for a second before she pushed him away and said, “I want to, but I _don’t,_ ya know? Are we still cool?”

Pickles nodded, and when he got home and looked in the mirror, he realized she’d left a smear of midnight-blue lipstick across his mouth.

-

The sidewalk outside the Thirsty Dolphin got crowded between sets – sweating, swaying bodies pouring out the front of the club to suck a couple lungfulls of air that wasn’t exactly _fresh,_ but burned just a little less than the stifling, smoky haze inside. Two decades later, the smell of Los Angeles still triggers some kind of grotesque enchantment for him, and that night a freak rainstorm had added a spike of sweetness to the smog and the puke and the pervasive reek of fryer grease. The puddles smattered neon light across the pavement, and Pickles wished he hadn’t used up the last of his mushrooms two nights before out of sheer, skull-fucking boredom during his shift at the Jade Dragon. Through a veil of tequila and Quaaludes, the sensation of water seeping through a hole in the bottom of his Chucks felt bright and playful. (He hadn’t yet acquired the boots – those would come later, when one of Tommy’s many girlfriends blacked out in the hallway, where Pickles couldn’t help but notice her size 7 red vintage Sheplers.)

He must’ve been smiling, because Tony was smiling back at him, had an arm around him that way that made it look like Pickles had leaned into him for support, when really it was _Tony_ who was always looking for an excuse, _Tony_ who lacked the small-town sense to keep his hands to himself in public.

_Dood, I fuckin’ **love** LA,_ Pickles was about to say, which was the thing he said whenever he meant, _Dood, I fuckin’ love **you,**_ but a man brushed past them just then, and he drowned out the scent of the rain and the city and Tony with a cologne that made Pickles’ stomach lurch, and he realized that he hadn’t even _thought_ about Seth in weeks.

-

In 1998, Skwisgaar Skwigelf wore enough make-up to drown a whore – a fact which Pickles learns one afternoon when he discovers the sleeve of Fuckface Academy’s first and only EP hiding amongst the coloring books that clutter Toki’s bedroom floor. (And despite the fact that Toki doesn’t own a record player.)

-

“You’re such a _fag,_ ” Seth had said, and he was drunk and sweating, but he said it kind of softly and with a smile less cruel than it might’ve been. And anyway, Pickles had expected that.

Seth’s hands had always felt rough and warm, had a surprising nimbleness to them that made him good at things like rolling joints, or shuffling cards, or fucking with wiring. He kept one elbow against Pickles’ chest to steady himself, licked his fingers to slick back the hair around Pickles’ right ear. “Dad’s gonna give you hell for this,” he said, plucking the sewing needle from between his teeth and pinching Pickles’ earlobe to pull it taught. 

“Yeah, I know.”

“You better keep your fuckin’ mouth shut an’ leave me out of it.” 

“Yeah, okee whatever,” Pickles replied. “You gonna do it, or you just gonna fuckin’ breathe on me all day?”

“Fuck you. Hold still.” And when it was over, Seth helped him clean up – poured a little vodka over Pickles’ ear, then offered his brother a sip, and then took out one of his own little silver loops to jam it through the hole. He told Pickles to leave it alone for at least a couple months. Then he sat back and whistled and said, “Dang, little bro – ya look like a real fairy now.”

-

He had a layover in Denver, and then in Dallas, and by the time he saw his reflection in the men’s room mirror at Miami International, his mascara had faded into a pair of dark circles like the ones Tony had.

-

I want you to dress up.

Like what – like in a tux?

No, like… like the way you _used_ to dress. Like, back when you were in Snakes n’ Barrels. You know, like, with make-up and everything.

Really?

Yeah.

How come? I mean, I uh, I never knew that was your bag.

I dunno. I guess because it would totally be like going back in time to fuck a famous person.

But I _am_ famous. Me – this guy right here! I’m like, a hundred _times_ more famous than that dildo.

I mean, like, not just a famous person, but uh – going back in time to like, bang your childhood celebrity crush or whatever.

Dood. Dood dood dood dood _dood._ Do ya mean to tell me that you use to like, _jerk aff_ to pictures of me when you were in like, what, fuckin’ junior high?

In my defense, you looked super fucking gay.

-

He stole an eyeliner pencil from the drug store downtown. He’d stolen lots of things before, but this made him feel sick, like he might throw up right there in the middle of the aisle, and he wondered if this was how good kids felt like, all the time.

-

“You ever gonna let me see you without all that shit?” Tony asked. He swiped a thumb across Pickles’ cheek and came away with glitter.

“Fuck aff,” Pickles said. “Y’ever gonna let me see ya without that dumbass hat?”

Tony scratched his chin, pretending to consider. “Seems like a fair trade,” he said, and plopped his top-hat down on Pickles’ head. The hat was too large for him, though, and it sank down over his eyebrows, and it made him feel owned.

“Fuck you,” Pickles said with a grin. “Ya ruined my fuckin’ _hair. _”__

__-_ _

__“What the fuck isch _thisch?_ ”_ _

__“It’s concealer.”_ _

__Murderface glares at him with accusation, one eye green and bloodshot, the other swollen shut, then looks down at the little plastic compact as though Pickles has tossed a used tampon or a dead rat into his lap._ _

__“Some groupie left it here,” Pickles offers, and says, “It’s about your complexion,” though truthfully it’s a couple shades too dark._ _

__“Make-up isch for puschies,” Murderface snarls. He flings the case hard into Pickles’ chest._ _

__It’s a thoughtless remark, but also fucking tired. Pickles opens the case, runs his fingertip around the circle of it and then wipes a trace of color onto the back of his left hand. “Just thought ya might wanna cover that up,” he says._ _

__“Why would I?” Murderface leans forward to inspect his face in the cracked mirror that he keeps leaned against one wall of the closet he calls his bedroom. God only knows why he even _owns_ a mirror. Magnus probably found it in a dumpster somewhere, brought it home to William and made it seem like some grand fucking gesture, when really it was just sadistic – sooner or later, Murderface was bound to put his fist through it, or his face, and then Magnus would be there, sure as a shadow. _Jesus Christ, Will – look what you’ve done. You’re such a fucking headcase. Just fucking sit still, and let me clean up that cut, okay?_ _ _

__Murderface prods at his black eye, sucking air through his teeth. “I think it looksch fucking brutal.”_ _

__“Yeah, that’s a gnarly fuckin’ shiner. But I – uh – I meant that thing on your arm.” William looks down at bruises that encircle the soft flesh just above his elbow, and Pickles looks away with a practiced indifference. No one has grabbed _him_ like that for a long time._ _

__Murderface blushes, and Pickles forgets sometimes that the kid’s only twenty, even if he _is_ an irredeemable douchebag. Pickles has never really believed in auras, or any of that bullshit that Snazz was always on about, but William’s got so much dark, twisted, fucked-up _sludge_ clinging to him that he’s been forced to reconsider; it’s the origin story of a comic-book villain, and Pickles has seen the newspaper stories, found them one day (or maybe went looking), and it makes him feel like a charlatan. He and Nathan grew up in the ‘burbs – stable, two-parent homes, and Pickles’ father might’ve been an asshole, but Pickles never got _hit,_ as much as he sometimes angled for it – and at least Nathan has his fucking _voices,_ but Murderface has two _decades_ of gore and abuse and repression – it’s a travesty and a fucking waste that the guy can’t write a song to save his life._ _

__Pickles plunks down beside William on the mattress on the floor and flicks open the compact. Wordlessly, Murderface extends his arm across Pickles’ knees, and Pickles dabs a bit of caramel-colored pigment on Will’s blotchy, cirrhotic skin._ _

__“You know I ain’t fuckin’ gay, right?”_ _

__Pickles ignores the goosebumps rising on William’s arm. “Yeah, dood. I know.”_ _

__-_ _

__The first time Pickles kissed Tony, the combined miasma of their hairspray made Pickles cough into Tony’s mouth, and that was when he realized he’d left his inhaler on his nightstand in Wisconsin._ _

__-_ _

__Seth wasn’t a bad-looking guy, Pickles supposed, though it was hard to be objective. Like, maybe if he was _dead,_ like, very _recently_ dead – just like, died in his sleep or something – maybe if you could look at just his corpse, freed from that skeezy, leering _smirk,_ maybe _then_ you could look at Seth and think, “What a handsome young man he was.” (And people commented not infrequently – about how alike they looked, and how much like their father, except for Pickles’ bastard hair.) It seemed that every girl in Lincoln County between the ages of twelve and twenty-five had been warned to stay away from Cal and Molly’s boys – a rite of passage which Seth had learned to twist in his favor, but none of this accounted for how he ended up banging Sarah Goldschlager for three whole weeks the summer before his senior year._ _

__Pickles only met her once, in July, when Seth dragged her to some scummy house-party in Gilbert._ _

__“Hey,” she’d said, and Pickles almost choked on his cigarette, because how the hell did _the_ hottest girl in town – who also seemed to be kind of smart and whose family owned a fucking vacation home in the U.P. – how’d she end up standing on the moldy front porch of Skylar Hardy’s house, while Pickles’ douchebag brother shotgunned Natty Ice and played Nintendo, and _ignored_ her in favor of listening to that tweaker Eddie Connelly retell the story of the time he got arrested for assaulting the Santa at the Olde Town Mall, only to learn in court that the man was actually his _father,_ who he’d never met before in his life?_ _

__Pickles surveyed the dilapidated porch-screen, and listened to the frizzle of mosquitos hitting the zapper that hung above the door in lieu of a porchlight. “Hey,” he said._ _

__“You’re Seth’s brother, huh?”_ _

__Pickles shrugged. “Yeah.”_ _

__“Topher, right?”_ _

__He winced and shook his head. Goddamn Seth. He hadn’t gone by his real name in a long time, but he’d _never_ gone by “Topher.” “It’s Pickles.”_ _

__“Oh.” She frowned. “Well, you look like him.”_ _

__“I guess,” he said. The sun had set hours ago, but still the air was hot and sultry, and Pickles became aware of his bare, skinny arms and pale shoulders, the sweat dampening the ragged edges of his shirt where he’d cut the sleeves off with a dull pair of scissors._ _

__“How old are you?” she asked, and he caught her eying the cigarette, the fifth of rum in his hand._ _

__“Fourteen,” he said, then extended the bottle towards her. “You want some?”_ _

__About a dozen gold bangles jingled along the length of her forearm as she took it from him, unscrewed the cap and gave a delicate sniff. “Jesus,” she said with a shudder before passing it back._ _

__Pickles eyed her as he took a pull. She looked tired, arms folded against the back of a shabby wicker chair to shift some of the weight off her feet. _Hey, babe, let me take you out tonight,_ Seth had probably said, and she put on heels and did her hair, and now she was out here, getting eaten by mosquitos, waiting for Seth to get so shit-canned that he’d ask her to drive him home. And he’d probably start groping her tits while she drove, probably stick his hand up her skirt and jab at her cunt for about thirty seconds, then – if she was lucky – pass out with his face in her lap. And after she parked the car in the driveway, she’d walk herself home alone in those elegant, excruciating shoes._ _

__“You, uh, look like, really good tonight,” said Pickles._ _

__“Thanks,” she replied, but he could tell she didn’t mean it._ _

__He cleared his throat and peered down the neck of his bottle. “How’d you get your eyes like that?” he tried again._ _

__“Excuse me?”_ _

__“I mean like, your make-up. How’d you get it all smoky an’ sexy like that? Every time I try I’m just like –” He ground to a halt. _Shit._ There was no reeling _that_ back in; he’d finally caught her attention, and found it too heavy, unbearable, and she was half-smiling at him, like she thought it was _funny_ that he’d slurred his way into a corner. She leaned towards him, waiting._ _

__“You’re just like what?”_ _

__“I’m just like – I end up like – it looks fucking shitty,” he said. He cringed, and wished he could crumple up, inward, like a discarded scrap of paper, or some other piece of trash that attracts no attention. She considered him – his fingernails colored in sloppy, purple marker; the padlock that hung from a short length of chain around his neck._ _

__“You want me to show you how?”_ _

__“Are ya fuckin’ with me?”_ _

__“I never fuck around about make-up,” she said, and before he could blink, she’d threaded her slender fingers with his sweaty ones and dragged him inside and up the stairs to the second-floor bathroom, and she emptied her purse into the sink, while Pickles sat on the toilet, slouching, trying not to look nervous._ _

__“I’ve never done this to someone else,” she warned him with a devilish smile, plucking an eyeliner pencil, shadow and mascara from the pile of cosmetics, tampons and gum wrappers._ _

__“You wanna like, lock the door maybe?”_ _

__Her fingers lighted on the latch, but she paused and looked at him again. “If I do, you promise not to do anything weird?”_ _

__“I mean, it’s kind of weird already,” he replied._ _

__Sarah rolled her eyes. “Can ya just promise you’re not gonna, like, try an’ touch my boobs, er kiss me er nothing?”_ _

__“No weird stuff,” he agreed, though he wondered if ‘no weird stuff’ meant like, no weird stuff _ever.__ _

__Her hands were cool and firm as she held his jaw steady, stood above him and gave commands like, “Open your eyes,” “Close them,” “Don’t move.” He felt her fingernail on his forehead, brushing aside a lock of hair. “I like your freckles,” she said._ _

__His eyes flickered open, and he watched her – eyebrows knit, lips pursed as she focused, her concentration penetrating him. She swore, licked a fingertip, rubbed at the corner of his eye. She set her make-up on the tank of the toilet, and each time she reached to swap one thing for another, her breasts brushed past his cheek. He could smell her – her perfume, her breath, her hand lotion, the detergent on her clothes; and he knew she could smell _him_ – his sweat, his body odor, the funk of pot and alcohol, the subtle tang of the spray-paint that he’d been huffing that afternoon after he and Kyle Simms got bored with tagging in the railyard. He thought about asking her whether he or Seth smelled better, but it was a pathetic, desperate question which he guessed might fall into the category of ‘weird stuff’ that Sarah meant to avoid._ _

__“What do you think?” she asked when she was done._ _

__“Dood,” was all he said. She stood behind him while he studied himself in the mirror, combing her fingers through his hair as if to add a finishing touch._ _

__“You want me to help you wash it off?”_ _

__“Nah,” he said, transfixed by his own, lurid green eyes, turning his face to the right and left, smiling. “Everyone already thinks I’m a fag anyway.”_ _

__-_ _

__It doesn’t count if they’re both still wearing the corpse-paint, though Pickles knows that the stipulation exists solely in his head, and he knows that it’s bound to crumble sooner or later. That it’ll turn into: doesn’t count after a show, doesn’t count if it’s on the floor, doesn’t count on tour, doesn’t count if you’re high, doesn’t count if I’m not, doesn’t count if we don’t talk about it, doesn’t count if it seems like we’re all about to die, doesn’t count unless Charles knows, it doesn’t count, it doesn’t count, it doesn’t _count.__ _

__Nathan is rougher than he means to be, still too gentle, and in the morning Pickles sees the white imprint of his own face, pressed against the wall above the bed, and he wonders what the fuck he’s just done._ _

__-_ _

__“I dunno, man – that’s some awfully negative shit to carry around with you forever,” Snazz tells him, even as he dabs the needle into a cap-full of India ink. Then loudly to Tony: “Dude. _Tony._ ‘D he _tell_ you what he wants me to do on him?”_ _

__Tony looks at them – Pickles shirtless, seated cross-legged on the floor, Snazz in a chair behind him with his knees on either side of Pickles’ shoulders. Pickles has his hair up, pulled back into a haphazard bun that gives Snazz access to the nape of his neck, and he awaits Tony’s reply with one eyebrow raised, his lips drawn into a smirk around a hot mouthful of General Tsao’s. He knows that Tony knows there’s no changing his mind, and anyway, it’s Pickles’ eighteenth birthday, so at this point Tony’s brain is a hopeless knot of lust and nerves and ketamine. (Because leave it to Pickles to fall in love with the only guy in LA who _won’t_ fuck a minor, or at least won’t now that he _knows,_ which makes it way _worse,_ just doing it that once and then getting stranded at second base for eight months just because Tony saw him without his make-up once and asked,_ _

__“Dude – like, how fucking _old_ are you?”_ _

__And like Pickles could’ve predicted that fucking a teenager would send Tony’s dysfunctional moral compass into spasm, but:_ _

__“Let me do it for you, dude. You don’t have to look if you don’t want to. Pickles – babe – look at me. God, dude – I never noticed how many freckles you got on your arms.”)_ _

__“It’s just a tattoo,” Tony says after a moment. “It’s not like it’s gonna ruin him.”_ _

__The ink is so faded that by the time Nathan spots it – sweeps Pickles’ dreads aside to prod at the back of his neck and ask “What the fuck is _this?_ ” – Pickles wonders for a moment what the hell he’s even _talking_ about._ _

__-_ _

__“If my son looked like you, I’d slap the make-up straight off his face.”_ _

___Fuck you,_ Pickles wants to say. _Why don’t ya suck your **own** dick, then?__ _

__But there’s a shower here, and a bed, and Pickles knows that some guys will let you stay the night if you give them a freebie in the morning. And so far anyway, this dude hasn’t been too rough or anything, and even let Pickles choose something off a take-out menu from the place down the block, so he just smiles and says,_ _

__“Yeah, well – if my old man looked like _you,_ I prably wouldn’t of run away from home.”_ _

__-_ _

__Dethklok might be the biggest band in the history of the world, but it’s still that photo from the back cover of Snakes n’ Barrels’ Live! from the Gutters that follows him around everywhere; it’s in his top ten Google Search Results, and in that fucking documentary, and every once in a while, it’s what some fan shoves at him, asking for an autograph._ _

__It used to make him flinch – back in the late nineties, whenever he’d wander into an Ernie November’s and see that image plastered up on the wall. Tommy, still a few steps ahead of his habit at that point. Snazz wearing that dumbass hippie amulet that he swore bound his soul to his body. Tony looking like a total fucking ghoul because he never could figure out how to relax in front of a camera. And then there’s this fucking _kid,_ with his ridiculous orange mane and his amateur-hour fuck-me eyes, trying so desperately _hard_ to look like anything other than a middle-class teenager from a two-parent home in Nowhere, Wisconsin._ _

__He’s come to terms with that photo, with those people, and with the balding, soft-bellied krillionaire he’s become. Still, when he walks into the living room and sees it lit up on the flatscreen, Pickles feels a wave of naked revulsion wash over him, and before he can think too deeply about _why,_ he stomps his control pedal and waits for Nathan to say something._ _

__-_ _

__There’s this Polaroid that used to hang on the fridge in their apartment: Pickles standing beside the tour bus with his arm around a boy, pressing a kiss against his cheek._ _

__“You’re gonna get us all arrested,” Trav had admonished when he snapped it, and Pickles only winked at him._ _

__“Who’s this?” Tony asked. “You run into a friend or something?”_ _

__Pickles shrugged. “Just some kid,” he said, like it didn’t even matter._ _

__Tony frowned at the photo, flipped it over to find “July 1990” penned on the back in Pickles’ uneven scrawl. “So’d ya fuck this kid, or what?”_ _

__“Nope.”_ _

__“How come?”_ _

__Pickles rolled his eyes. “I dunno, dood – I guess I just like, _forgot._ ”_ _

__The photo drives Tony crazy, a little bit. Pickles has never kept pictures of himself with fans, so Tony’s not sure why he has to look at _this_ one every time he gets his whiskey from the freezer. It’s a touch out of focus, and the flash washed out most of the detail, but despite the poor quality, Tony can tell that the kid in the photo is fucking beautiful. Which Pickles is. Which Tony never has been. They’re both holding red cherry slushees – in July 1990, that is – and Pickles’ eyes are closed, and the kid’s got this _smile_ on his face like he just won the lottery, and Tony finds the lurid innocence of it goddamned _afflicting.__ _

__***_ _

__They’re on their way to a gig in Tuscaloosa, just a few miles from the Alabama state line, when Pickles gets a yen for something cold and sweet, and staggers up to the front of the bus to demand that Trav – the only member of their entourage whose addiction proves an asset – pull off at the next exit and find a gas station._ _

__

__It’s early evening, and the thick, Southern air has been playing havoc with Pickles’ hair since they hit East Texas, and he’s been sleeping and performing in the same clothes for the past three days. The bus heaves to a stop, and Pickles contemplates his faded eyeliner in the rearview mirror before swiping a pair of Trav’s Ray-Bans off the console to shield his eyes from the ruthless parking lot lighting of Love’s Travel Stop._ _

__“Where are we?” Pickles asks, and Trav tells him “Toomsuba,” like that’s anyplace anyone’s ever heard of._ _

__Inside, Trav beelines for the bathroom, and goosebumps break out on Pickles’ arms, though he can’t say for sure whether that’s caused by the glacial air-conditioning, or the dozen pairs of eyes that turn to stare. And Pickles doesn’t necessarily mind being gaped at, either, since he knows he can _leave,_ that he will be leaving shortly, that he’s probably the most talented person who has or will ever set foot in this fucking shit-heel town, and if some fucking hick wants to throw a wolf-whistle at him, well… Pickles has learned how to take a compliment. Still, it’s fucking _cold_ in here, and he wishes maybe he’d thought to grab Tony’s jacket, since the shirt he’s wearing got so torn up in Jackson last night that it’s barely a shirt at all. It’s bad enough being gawked at without everyone seeing you _shiver.__ _

__Pickles heads for the back of the store, drawn by the low drone of the slushee machine. Four colors churn in transparent tanks; a polar bear in a scarf and sunglasses promises a treat “so cool, it’s cold.” Pickles grabs a plastic cup and pops on the clear, domed lid. He’s reaching for the dispenser labelled “CHERRY,” when he realizes that there’s also “WHITE CHERRY,” which, like – what’s even the difference? Why is that even _there?_ Like, somebody wasn’t satisfied with regular old cherry? And the _cup_ – it’s 36 _ounces._ Pickles knows he can handle 36 ounces of pretty much _anything,_ but like, holy _shit_ that’s a lot of slushee. Enough to make you really fucking _sick,_ probably._ _

__“Oh my God – _Pickles?_ ”_ _

__“ _What?_ ”_ _

__He turns around, ready to swing, but there’s just this _kid_ – wide brown eyes rimmed with kohl, and the sweetest smile Pickles has ever seen – and maybe the most beautiful thing about it is: he’s wearing a Snakes ‘n Barrels shirt straight from last night’s merch booth._ _

__If the boy is put off by Pickles’ initial snarl, he doesn’t show it. “Holy shit,” he says, then asks in an amicable drawl, “What the hell’re ya doin’ in ‘Suba? Bus break down’r somethin’?”_ _

__“I, uh –” Pickles pushes his shades up into his hair to get a better look at the kid, and Jesus Christ. He can’t decide what’s more provocative – the pair of silver eyebrow rings, or the Barbie-pink lipstick – but he’s already concluded that the kid has to be _nuts,_ wandering around this fucking backwater dressed like he belongs on Santa Monica Boulevard. Pickles looks at the empty cup in his hand. “Needed a snack,” he says finally. “Got like, fuckin’ low blood sugar.” He smiles as much as he dares to. “Hey, are you like, _from_ here?”_ _

__“Lauderdale County, born an’ raised,” the boy says with almost imperceptible cynicism._ _

__Pickles pulls a lever on the slushee machine, watches the cup fill with red blended ice. “You ever been to LA?” he asks, though he’s sure he knows the answer._ _

__The kid shakes his head, blushing, his hair teased up so masterfully that he looks like he’s been electrocuted. “Me? Nah. Shit, I never even been East of Newton til I went to see y’all in the city last night.”_ _

__Pickles imagines how this boy would feel, pressed against the trunk of a hemlock tree – the way _he_ felt in the woods along the Double C the summer after sophomore year. He remembers the roughness of bark against his hands, the smell of wet leaves, the buzz of lust and fear and the sound of cars rushing by. There’s got to be a woods like that nearby._ _

__He imagines the way the kid’s eyes would shimmer, taking in Los Angeles at night from the top of Mt. Lee – an endless, sleepless, soulless city, like a net made of light cast over a black ocean._ _

___Come with us,_ Pickles almost blurts, but the kid’s sixteen if he’s a day, and anyway, like Tony would fucking love _that_ arrangement, and suddenly Pickles _knows_ – for the first time since he left – that he’s out, he’s made it, he’s never going back, and this overwhelming sense of _relief_ washes over him, so instead he just says, “Dood – you want me to buy you a slushee?”_ _

__“For real?” the kid asks, and Pickles indulges himself in a few more seconds of fantasy, in which he’s something more than a creep and a pervert. Like, maybe just a teenager from Wisconsin, working up the nerve to talk to this kid from Mississippi._ _

__“Yeah, dood,” he says, bashful, with a shrug and one hand plays with his earring. “I dunno if you know this but like – I’m sort of a fucking _rockstar._ ”_ _

__-_ _

__He dyes his hair fastidiously for the first five months. Black, the first time, but it looks absurd on him, so he settles on a dark, chestnut brown that’s believable, though it unfortunately highlights his resemblance to a certain inmate at the Racine Correctional Institution._ _

__This started as a ploy to avoid recognition, but the new stuff coming out of Washington right now is so luscious and wrist-slittingly _heavy_ that he suspects no one really _cares_ who he is anymore, and anyway, he’s going bald. Still, he keeps it up – buys a new box of L’Oreal at the drug store down the block from his apartment every couple of weeks, right up until the day that he walks into an audition, and there’s Magnus, seeing straight through him and everything, and it’s not the creepy, milk-white eye that sees, but it’s the _other_ one you’ve got to watch out for. Things start to get away from you when Magnus is around – like Tony, but worse, because Magnus is _making_ it happen – and Pickles has always had a peculiar reaction to monsters. _ _

__Two weeks later, they’re at a club outside Tampa, sizing up the singer of an otherwise-mundane band called BloodCum, when Magnus – who goes out of his way to avoid touching other people – offers him a mixed drink, wraps an arm around Pickles’ shoulders, slides his fingers into the hair on the back of Pickles’ neck and leans in to shout over the drone of the bass: “Hey, Ginger-baby – your roots are showing.”_ _

__-_ _

__The outfit is a disaster. Pickles explains that he lost most of his clothes in 1993 – a mix-up with the airline, ya know? – and hides his relief that he’ll not have to deepen his humiliation by trying to squeeze into a pair of acid-washed jeans with a 34-inch waist._ _

__The shirt is just something a groupie left on his floor – a black V-neck cut for a woman with a huge rack – and it hangs awkwardly on his freckled chest. He’s found a bandana for the occasion, and swiped a pair of Charles’ driving gloves, which are probably the nicest thing Pickles has ever worn._ _

__“Those are, uh… those are the boots, though, huh?”_ _

__Pickles glances at Nathan’s reflection in the mirror. “Yeah. There was a while there where ya couldn’t take ‘em aff me.” He shifts his weight from one leg to the other. “Fuckin’ uncomfortable as hell. I swear to God, it’s like even my feet got fuckin’ fat. Christ, I look like a fuckin’ _wreck,_ ” he whines, squeezing at the soft bulge of his gut._ _

__“You look fuckin’ _hot,_ ” Nathan tells him, then comes up behind him to lay a hand on Pickles’ waist._ _

__There’s something hateful about it – this body he has now. But when he looks in the mirror at Nathan’s fingers, creeping around to the front of his jeans, Pickles feels so perfectly, deliciously _small_ that he forgets for a moment about the way his eyeliner bleeds into his crow’s feet._ _

__“I’ve wanted this since I was like, fourteen,” Nathan admits._ _

__Pickles wonders if they would’ve crossed paths. He remembers himself – thin and angry, drunk and stoned – and he thinks about Nathan in his letterman’s jacket. _Wanna come over and listen to some records?__ _

__“Yeah,” he says, pressing his nose into the crook of Nathan’s neck. “Me too.”_ _


End file.
